


the art of not giving a shit (and things)

by aztec234



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Human, Blood and Injury, Bruises, F/M, Gun Violence, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25785652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aztec234/pseuds/aztec234
Summary: Gangsters AU
Relationships: Amren & Rhysand (ACoTaR), Azriel & Cassian & Rhysand (ACoTaR), Feyre Archeron & Andras (past), Feyre Archeron & Azriel, Feyre Archeron & Cassian, Feyre Archeron & Lucien Vanserra, Feyre Archeron & Morrigan, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Tamlin (past), Morrigan & Rhsyand (ACoTaR), Rhysand & Helion
Comments: 50
Kudos: 152





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Read on [Tumblr](https://aztec234.tumblr.com/post/625883837949427712/put-a-gun-to-my-head-ill-shoot-you-dead-chap).  
>  **Warnings:** Language. A gun. Mentions of blood, bruising, cauterizing, shoot-outs and gangs.

Feyre wanted to scream. And cry. And then scream a little more. And then curl into a little ball and sob for the rest of her life.

She’d been on her feet for seventy-four hours now, hadn’t slept for longer than thirteen minutes, running on nothing but a box of doughnuts that Lucien had brought from the corner store and an unhealthy amount of coffee, but she just. Couldn’t. Fucking. _Sleep_.

Why?

The answer was in the form of the massive shoot-out that had happened four days ago, between the Spring Court and the Night Court along with their alliances, that had injured more than a thousand people.

The long-standing feud between the warring gangs had always been a prominent factor of life in Velaris. In newspapers, news channels, magazines, history books.

The war had started when Velaris had been found, and continued to this day, almost a hundred years later. Gang members apparently never took grudges lightly. What had started as a small disagreement between two gangsters had transformed into a full-blown battle, costing the lives of people daily, and it all had accumulated into the biggest, bloodiest shootings in Velaris history.

Feyre had become a doctor to save people, dammit. Not to play a game of ‘ _What is it that’s going to kill me today? Sleep deprivation? Caffeine addiction? Two gangsters who just couldn’t have a civil discussion without trying to blow each other's heads off?_ ’

She wanted to sleep. She wanted to go back to her dingy apartment, eat something that was not store-bought doughnuts and instant noodles, and sleep for an entire decade.

Scratch that, an entire _century_.

She _never_ wanted to see another gunshot wound in her entire life.

Yes, but _obviously_ , whatever deity heard her prayer instead cackled and screamed down from the heavens: _lol nope_ , because _just_ as she was about to put her key into her lock and open the door to a comfortable bed, she felt the cold nozzle of a gun being pressed into her head.

“You’re a doctor, aren't cha?”

Feyre sighed, too tired. It was probably the sleep deprivation that was coaxing her to act like a stressed-out adult just done with the world’s shit instead of the standard reaction of fear because _what the fuck a dude’s pointing a gun at me_ , but she honestly didn’t give two shits whether or not this man was about to blow her brains out. “What do you want?”

The man hissed. “Show some respect. I'm holding a gun to your head.”

“And I have a death wish, so that’s not gonna work.”

There was a moment of silence as the man standing behind her lowered the gun a little and said in a concerned voice, “Dude, are you okay?”

Feyre sighed. “Not really. Seriously, what do you want?”

She heard him shuffle on the carpet and chose to turn around and see her assailant face on. The man was a head taller than her, with a sharp, angular face and a scruffy jaw. His chin and cheeks were covered in bloody scraps, and so were his hands, clenching and unclenching around his gun. His jeans and t-shirt both had several holes on them, showcasing even more bruised skin, and his jacket looked as if it had seen better days.

Attractive, but not her type.

And there went her sanity. Was she seriously finding the man who held a gun to her head _attractive_? Wow, looked like sleep deprivation was a winning contestant for today’s edition of ‘ _What is it that’s going to kill me today?_ ’

The man cleared his throat uneasily. “Usually when I pull a gun out, most people start begging for their lives.”

Feyre snorted. “Seeing that I’m not most people, you’re going to have to explain to me what you want _without_ it.”

“Yeah. You _are_ a doctor though, right?”

“I have a badge if you want me to prove it to ya.”

The man shook his head. “That won't be necessary.” He shifted on his feet again, and Feyre realized that her remark must have thrown him off guard much more than she had expected. “Uh,” he awkwardly cleared his throat, jutting his hand out. “I’m Cassian.”

Feyre stared at the hand before realizing that she was meant to shake it. Choosing to ignore the gesture, she looked him in the eye and said, “Feyre. Do you usually go around asking people if they're doctors by pressing a gun to their head? Or other body parts?”

The man – _Cassian_ – dropped his hand, choosing instead to tuck his gun into the waistband of his jeans. “Well, not really. This is the first time, to be honest.”

“And I was the lucky test subject?”

“Well, Azriel said that you were a doctor, so…”

Feyre frowned. “Azriel? Downstairs flower shop Azriel? You know him?”

That was a stupid question, now that she thought about it. _Everybody_ knew Azriel. He was the guy that was just… _there_. The nice guy. The ‘I’ll have her-him-them – _whatever_ – home by ten o’clock, sir’ guy. Cassian seemed more of the ‘Your child calls me daddy too’ type of person.

“Uh, yeah. Um…”

“Okay, okay,” Feyre muttered. “What do you need a doctor for?”

Cassian’s jaw clenched, and it looked as if he had to make a physical effort to grit out the words, “A friend of mine needs help.”

It was then that Feyre’s eyes zeroed onto the tattoo on his neck. Small, insignificant, and black, it was a simple – but beautiful – moon. The mark of the Night Court.

Her gaze hardened. “You’re a member of the Night Court.”

The Night Court, easily known as the most dangerous out of the seven gangs that reigned control over the city of Velaris.

Cassian stiffened, before sighing. “Yes. And one of my friends got injured. We managed to cauterize the wound, but he needs proper medical attention. Please.”

Maybe it was because of the helpless look in Cassian eyes as he silently begged her of her help, or maybe her doctor's spirit, or maybe just her subconscious wondering if she could find another factor to add to her list of ‘ _What is it that’s going to kill me today?_ ’ game, but either way, Feyre found herself agreeing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Looks at the amount of kudos.*  
> *Blinks wildly.*
> 
> "What the fuck?"
> 
>  **Warnings:** Language. Mentions of blood, cauterizing, shoot-outs and gangs.

The place where Cassian’s friend had taken refuge was _dark_. And smelled about as nice as an ape which hadn’t had a bath in decades. Feyre was pretty sure that her jacket now permanently smelt of it.

Great. Another thing to add to the list of things Feyre needed to do as soon as she got home – as if she didn’t have other things already:

 **First:** Eat something which is _healthy_ and not _doughnuts_ or _instant noodles_.

 **Second:** Have a shower.

 **Third:** Wash the clothes.

 **Fourth:** Sleep for the next century or so.

But it seemed that number two would be taking number one spot, because Feyre was pretty sure she’d gag halfway through her food if she didn’t have a bath.

Like, seriously? Why would somebody choose an abandoned building – one with a rat infestation, no less – as a hideout after a fucking shooting? All that bacteria, and germs, and untreated wounds…

Feyre shuddered just thinking about it.

The place was littered with wounded gang members, some lying on the floor, unable to get up, some sitting up, and some just not moving. Feyre chose not to dwell on those ones.

She instead focused on Cassian’s back as he carefully maneuvered through the messy tangle of bodies, limbs, and blood, heading towards a stairwell which’s doors were hanging by the hinges, ready to fall at the slightest gust of wind.

The staircase lacked a railing, but Feyre abstained from touching the wall. Cauldron knew when the last time this place had been cleaned. The entire building was a violation against the Velaris Department of Health.

Two floors above, Cassian shouldered another door open – seriously, _why were these doors hanging by the hinges?_ Why couldn’t they just fucking get them replaced? – and led Feyre to a backroom. Inside the room, on a make-shift bed made entirely of a lumpy mattress and several cardboard boxes, lay a man, his head cradled in the lap of a golden-haired woman. Sitting next to him, his face buried in his hands, was downstairs flower shop Azriel, who shot off his chair at the sight of Cassian.

“Did you get—”

The rest of his sentence was cut off in a strangled garble of words as he saw Feyre, standing next to Cassian and giving him a ‘Are you shitting me?’ look. “You know, you could’ve just texted me that you needed my help instead of asking your trigger-happy friend to come and threaten to shoot me.”

Azriel’s face flushed red, which was a weird look on him. Feyre had never seen him flustered. “My phone broke during the shooting.”

“You have my number written on the flower shop register, Az.”

“I-I didn’t think of that.”

“Real smooth, Az,” the golden-haired woman muttered. “The Night Court’s biggest ace, forgetting that he already had the phone number of the pretty doctor and sending Cassian to put a gun to the back of her head. What did you expect to happen when you send in your trigger happy brother?”

“ _Adopted_ brother,” Azriel hissed.

Cassian stared between both of them. “Can we not talk about me as if I’m not in the room?”

Feyre blinked. These people obviously had a dynamic, a sort of connection that spoke of familial familiarity and years of knowing each other. “You want a doctor for Sleeping Beauty over there?”

The blonde-haired woman turned to her. “Yes, please. I’m Mor. This is my cousin, Rhysand.”

Feyre froze, her hand inches away from his forehead. “ _Rhysand?_ Like, _Rhysand Night?_

Mor nodded solemnly. “But most people call him Rhysie.”

Feyre blinked at her. She didn’t think most people could call him by his name without shaking in fear, let alone _Rhysie_. This dude _was_ , after all, the motherfucking leader of the Night Court. She glanced at Azriel, who’s only acknowledgment was a slight tilt of his head. So, they weren’t shitting her. “Uh, okay.”

Turning back to the prone form of the most dangerous man in Velaris, she gingerly placed her hand on his forehead. “He’s burning up. Can you show me the wound?”

Mor inclined her head slightly towards Azriel, who moved to lift Rhysand’s shirt, revealing a rather nasty looking patch of angry, raised, burnt skin on his abdomen. Feyre sucked in a sharp breath at the sight. “You said you cauterized the wound?”

Cassian nodded, anxiously wringing his hands.

Feyre sighed. “It’s done so badly, I’m surprised it hasn’t been infected. I’m assuming the bullet passed through, so for now, I’m going to stitch up the wound and clean it. Once it’s healed a little, I’ll see if he needs further medical assistance.”

“Alright,” Cassian said. “Do you need anything else?”

Feyre shook her head. “I’ll let you know when I do.”

* * *

Rhys stared at the ceiling. Hadn’t the paint of his wall been white?

He tried to sit up to take a good look around the room since his eyes refused to budge from his sockets but was pushed down because of two things: one, the searing pain in his abdomen, and two, the pair of hands that gently pressed on his chest.

“Sit down, or you’ll end up puking,” a feminine voice said, very much unlike his cousin Mor’s, and _definitely_ unlike Amren’s.

“Wha—”

“You have a nasty concussion,” the voice replied matter-of-factly to his unsaid question. “So lie back down and drink this unless you want to hurl all your guts out.”

A glass was pressed into his hands, and Rhys drank blindly from it. The liquid slid down his throat like water, with a hint of… citrus? Oranges?

“Sorry,” the voice sheepishly apologized. Mystery Woman must have taken the scrunch of his nose as a sign of disgust “Orange was the only flavor available.”

“No, no. I like it. Just a lil’ surprised,” Rhys slurred. Was his tongue supposed to be this heavy?”

The voice laughed, and Rhys strained his ears. Mystery woman’s giggles didn’t sound like bells or anything, but it was nice, with a current of hoarseness that implied that she hadn’t slept in a while.

“What day is it?” Rhys grunted, the glass slipping out of his hand. Before it could hit the floor, a pale, freckled hand shot down and caught it, inches from shattering on the cold stone.

“It’s actually still night. You’ve been asleep for quite a while.”

Rhys blinked. “Asleep? Sleep is for the weak.”

The voice laughed again, and he glanced up, searching for the face of Mystery Woman. The room was dark so he really couldn’t make out much, but what he saw made the air in his lungs hitch painfully in his throat.

Caramel hair yanked up a sloppy bun, looking as if it would unravel at any second, with gray eyes that reminded Rhys of smoke hidden behind lopsided glasses. A pert nose, freckled skin, and the moonlight streaming from the window hitting her just right, she looked… _ethereal_.

And a little dusty too, but that might have been his imagination.

His breath hitching caused him to double forward, hacking out coughs.

Mystery Woman frowned, and with her free hand, reached out and pressed the back of her palm against his forehead. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, _yeah!_ Absolutely.”

Mystery Woman hummed. “That’s good.”

Rhys shifted on the…bed? Lumpy mattress? What the hell was he lying on?

“Cardboard boxes,” Mystery Woman said. Rhys stared at her, wondering how she knew what he was wondering before realizing he had spoken his question out loud.

“I said that out loud?”

“Yeah.” Mystery Woman turned around, her back facing him, and Rhys stared at the hem of her shirt, which had a brownish stain at the hem. “Your tongue becomes loose when you have a concussion. Your body doesn’t really follow what your brain says, and without meaning to, sometimes just says things out loud.”

“Oh.”

The woman turned back to him, the glass of water re-filled. “Here. Swallow the pill with this.”

Rhys stared at her outstretched hands a little dumbly, wondering what to do. She sighed, using the hand which cradled a white tablet to gesture to his own, lying uselessly by his side. “Gimme your hand.”

She handed him the glass of water, before tapping his chin. “Open up.”

The woman was right, Rhys realized. His body really wasn’t cooperating with his brain. If a person told him to eat something, he never would, because the person might as well be trying to feed him a poison. But Rhys found his jaw opening, the tablet being disposed on his tongue, and the woman pressing his hand insistently to his mouth.

With a gulp, he swallowed all the water. “What was that?”

“Painkiller. You’ll find yourself drowsy in a couple of moments. Chances are you won’t remember any of this by the time you wake up.”

Rhys wanted to protest, to tell the woman that he wanted to remember her, but he found he couldn’t. His body was slipping into the bed, sinking into the cardboard boxes. His eyes shut, and he fell into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is another chapter! I was honestly not expecting so much response on one chapter only, so THANK YOU SO MUCH.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Language. Mentions of shoot-outs and gangs.

Another night spent awake. Again.

Granted, it wasn’t Rhysand’s fault. It was Feyre’s.

Definitely Feyre’s. Feyre and her big mouth and her stupid doctor’s spirit.

She could practically _see_ Nesta in her mind’s eye, shaking her head disapprovingly.

 _You always took on tasks too big for you to handle, little sister_.

Of course, after Nesta had said that, Feyre had flipped her her favorite hand gesture, but the words had stuck.

She always _did_ take on tasks too big for her, and then ended up with heaps of trouble for being unable to finish it. Helping people had been the one thing that she had been good at, and still was, to this day, but at a much larger scale.

Even then, her insatiable urge to do _something_ had always been there. And had always been putting her in situations that she just couldn’t handle. Feyre liked to think that her inability to say no – even when guns were not used – was partially to blame.

So when Azriel asked her to stay a little longer, even after Rhysand’s fever had broken and he no longer woke in the middle of the night only to have painkillers shoved down his throat, Feyre had agreed.

Big. Fat. _Mistake_.

It wasn’t that they were mean. On the contrary, the members of the Night court had been surprisingly nice to her, despite their burly appearances. It was probably only because she had saved their leader, but Feyre chose to ignore that little voice.

No. It was said leader that was making her question her decisions.

And her sanity.

And just how sleep-deprived she was.

Because when he stepped outside the room that he had been holed up in, recovering, the first thing that Feyre thought was _oh shit, he’s hot_.

Like, _really_ hot.

Hotter than the sun hot.

Hotter than—

Okay, _stop_ , Feyre chided herself. No finding gang leaders hot. That was just asking for trouble. No way in _hell_ was she going to become the protagonist in some mafia romance, like the novels that Nesta used to read.

But seriously, the deity from before must have already decided that she was doomed to be dragged to the Underworld because _nobody_ and Feyre meant _nobody_ , had the right to be so damn _beautiful_.

Yes. _Beautiful_.

The first thing that Feyre had noticed, right from the beginning, was his eyes. Purple. Which she really, _really_ , did not think was natural, but what the hell.

Once upon a time, she had thought that eyes couldn’t look like emeralds.

That had been half-an-hour ago, and Rhysand had immediately been whisked away by his cousin and Cassian, both intent on talking to him about things Feyre had no interest in.

Things that Feyre would _never_ be interested in, she told herself, as he re-appeared, violet eyes searching for something before they settled on her, slumped on the chair that Azriel had let her occupy.

“Uh, Feyre?”

Feyre blinked, her brain as slow as a snail as it registered that he had said her name. “I is she.” She blinked a little more. “Fuck, I need sleep.”

Rhysand chuckled nervously, running his hand through his hair. “Uh, there are some spare beds here you can take if you want—”

“No, no,” Feyre interrupted, shaking her head. “No offense, but this place doesn’t seem to have been approved by the Health Department. I’ll just go home.”

“None taken. I can ask Azriel to drop you off if you like.”

“That won't be necessary. Thank you though.”

Rhysand tilted his head, smiling softly. “I should be the one thanking you. You were the one who saved my life.”

Feyre ducked her head, running her tongue over her teeth. She didn’t fail to notice how Rhysand followed that movement with his eyes. “I was-I was just doing my job. Nothing else.”

They both lapsed into silence, one that was charged and electric and made the hair at the back of Feyre’s neck stand up. She hadn’t felt like this since—

“Did they tell you to call me Rhysie, or something like that?”

Feyre snorted. “Yes, they did. I’m guessing they _don’t_ actually call you that?”

Rhysand shook his head, sighing. “No, they don’t. They just like getting on my nerves.”

“That sounds like something my sister would do.”

Rhysand raised an eyebrow. “You have a sibling?”

“I have three.”

“That’s-that’s a lot.”

Feyre absent-mindedly nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”

He shuffled on his feet, looking like the picture definition of awkward. “Well, I guess this is goodbye.”

“Yeah.” Feyre huffed. “I guess it is.”

“Um, bye-bye.”

Feyre smirked slightly. “Bye-bye.”

* * *

“ _Bye-bye_?” Cassian blurted as soon as Feyre disappeared down the street. “A million things you could have said, and you went with _bye-bye_?”

“You, cousin dear,” Mor began, slinging her arm across Rhysand’s shoulder. “Are _fucked_.”

“Shut up, Mor.”

* * *

Feyre wanted to find that damn deity and then smack it upside the head.

Not only had she failed in getting her century of sleep, but she had also tossed and turned in bed relentlessly, first because she couldn’t remember whether or not she had submitted the paperwork for all the patients she had treated the previous day, and second because her neighbor had decided to have incredibly loud sex with her boyfriend.

Nothing better to serenade you to sleep than repeating thumps, banging headboards, and screaming “ _Harder, harder!_ ”

Obviously, shit like that didn’t matter, because, at eleven, she found herself back in the hospital, sluggishly working on even _more_ paperwork – like the world was lacking in that area – and desperately trying to keep her eyes open.

Feyre was just contemplating sticking tape on both her eyelids to keep them open when her intercom buzzed.

“Doctor Archeron, there’s somebody here to meet you.”

Feyre groaned. “Tell them to make an appointment.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. She’s on her way to your office.”

She frowned. “What?”

Her reply came in the form of her office door banging open, revealing—

“Mor?”

The blond woman grinned a thousand-watt smile at a baffled Feyre. “Hey!”

Feyre blinked at her. “What-what are you doing here? Is it Rhysand? I stitched him up the best I could, but if the wounds opened again I can—”

“Oh, no no, nothing like that. I was in the area, and I just thought of dropping by. Seeing your workplace and everything.”

“Oh.” Then—

“How did you get in?”

Mor waved her hand dismissively, seating herself in the chair in front of Feyre’s desk. “Your secretary’s the sister of a dear friend of mine. Automatic brownie points.”

“Ah.” Feyre gingerly leaned back, her seat creaking as her weight shifted. “Is there anything you want?”

Mor looked at her. Her eyes seemed golden in the sunlight. “What makes you think I want something?”

 _Your posture’s too open and relaxed for somebody who’s involved with one of the most dangerous businesses in Velaris. Your words seem like they’ve been rehearsed. My secretary called me barely half a minute before you came to my office when it usually would take about five minutes to come here from the reception, meaning that this dear friend of yours is involved in your plan to get something from me and that this visit was planned._ “Gut feeling.”

The corners of Mor’s eyes crinkled. “Damn accurate gut you got there. Though it’s more of a request than a want.”

Feyre raised her eyebrow, curiosity overpowering the voice in the back of her head that was telling her to _shut the fuck up and do your work_. “What request?”

Mor leaned forward, setting her hands on Feyre’s desk. “See, Rhysand is rather _picky_ , for the lack of a better word. The fact that he thanked you, let alone allowed you to treat him, is a feat that I have never seen anybody ever achieve.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. He trusts you, only after one meeting. Rhysand’s a good judge of character. He’s never wrong. If he trusts you, we trust you. So, I was hoping that during the occasion that he or any of us are injured while in the midst of… _unsavory_ activities, you treat us.”

Feyre blinked. “You want _me_ to treat _you_ guys if you get injured?”

Mor nodded.

“What do I get out of that?”

“We’ll pay you. All legal money, nothing that can be traced back to us, so you won't get in any trouble with law enforcement or anything.”

Feyre tapped her fingers against her desk, weighing the pros and cons.

 **Pros:** she gets extra money.

 **Cons:** she gets involved with things that she should not be getting involved in.

What to do? What to do…

“I’ll think about it.”

Mor’s face broke into a smile. “That’s great!” She rose from the chair, stepping back. “I’ll give you my number, so when you make up your mind you can call me.”

Feyre rested her elbows on her desk, and in turn, rested her chin on the back of her hands. “If I say yes?”

“A small amount of money gets transferred into your account as thanks for saving Rhysand last night. More money will come every time you treat us.”

“And if I say no?”

“The money for last night still goes to you, but we won't bother you again. It’ll be the last time you ever hear from the Night Court.”

“The last time? I highly doubt that.”

Mor grinned. “You automatically got added to our no-harm list. Anybody who messes with you immediately gets marked into your shit books.”

“How will you send the money to me? You don’t know—”

“Oh, but that’s the beauty of Azriel’s skills,” Mor said, winking, as she pulled out her phone. “When you first moved into your apartment complex, Azriel searched you up. Got your details.”

Feyre sat up at that. “What all did he find out about me?”

“Nothing personal. Just date of birth, where you were from, your bank account details. Your phone number. Stuff like that. Nothing personal, like family.”

“You have my phone number?”

“Yup.” Mor’s fingers flew over the screen of her phone at lightning speed. Exactly two seconds later, Feyre’s own phone buzzed from her pocket. “There. You can save my number now.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Nah.” Mor winked at her. “We should be thanking you, Feyre.”

* * *

_Somewhere in-a-place-that-shall-not-be-named…_

* * *

“I thought Rhysand had been injured.”

The woman nodded. “He was.”

“He should have died.”

“Yes, he should have.”

The man’s fingers tapped the screen of his phone. “Then why didn’t he die, Ianthe? I was under the impression that the shooting was a cover while you attempted to assassinate him.”

The woman, Ianthe, bared her teeth. “The bastard boy got some doctor involved.”

“Oh?”

“Name’s Feyre Archeron or something.”

The man’s fingers froze. “Archeron?”

“Yeah. Works for the Velaris Hospital. You know her?”

Hybern chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, Archeron and I go _far_ back…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Cackles*
> 
> The plot is picking up!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Language.

_Nine years ago…_

* * *

_Blue walls. White bed. Red ceiling._

_“And Nesta calls me un-coordinated,” Feyre snorted, sinking down into the mattress. The color scheme of her college room was atrocious, at best._

_The air smelled stale with a hint of dust, and the sunlight streaming in through the small, sole window was feeble._

_The room was… bare._

_“Has anybody ever even lived here?” Feyre thought out loud._

_“Yes, they have.” A boy with a bright mop of green-dyed hair answered, peeking his head into her room. “They say a student once hung himself from the ceiling.”_

_Feyre blinked at him. “Oh, uh, that’s-that’s- wow.”_

_The boy chuckled. “Yeah. I found it really cool.” He stuck his hand out. “Hi, I’m Andras.”_

_Feyre ignored his hand, electing to stand up from the bed. “I’m Feyre.”_

_Andras grinned. Feyre noted his teeth, bright and white and completely straight. “You’re new, right?”_

_Feyre shrugged. “I just got here today.”_

_“That’s great! I can show you around if you’d like that.”_

_Feyre hesitated. Make friends, Feyre,_ _Elain’s voice reminded her in her head. College is an experience. Make the most of it._

_“Yeah. Sure.”_

* * *

_“And that’s the library,” Andras finished, pointing to a door labeled ‘No food or drinks allowed’._

_“What about that one? You haven’t told me what’s in that room,” Feyre said, pointing at the affronted door with her finger. “Has somebody else killed themselves there?”_

_Andras chuckled. “I wish. That’s the biochemistry lab. Come on, I’ll show you.”_

_Leading her to the door, he rapped his knuckles on it before pushing it open. “Tamlin, you here?”_

_Feyre’s eyes took a second to adjust to the dim lighting of the room before she saw who Andras was addressing. There, sitting right at the back of the room, hidden behind a desk and hunched over a book, was a boy._

_Said boy looked up from his book, a massive scowl on his face, and very haughtily and whiningly, snapped, “ What?!”_

_Feyre immediately didn’t like him._

_Andras sighed. Apparently, this behavior from Tamlin was normal. “You’ve been in here since breakfast. Can you come out now?”_

_Tamlin’s face went purple, and Feyre noted that the color went wonderfully with his sweatshirt. “No, I can not. Fuck off.”_

_“That’s rude,” Feyre interrupted. “He’s your friend and he’s obviously worried about you. You can at least be nice to him.”_

_Tamlin snapped his head to stare at her, glaring daggers that would have surely pierced her if looks could kill. “Nobody asked for your opinion, Freckles.”_

_Feyre’s nostrils flared. “My name is Feyre.”_

_Andras stepped in between them, lifting his hands in the air. “Guys, guys, stop. Play nice.”_

_Tamlin bared his teeth as Feyre hissed, “I’ll only play nice if he does.”_

_“Never gonna happen, bitch.”_

_Feyre’s hands curled into fists as the sudden urge to pummel his face struck her. “Oh, you asshole.”_

_“ Okay, both of you. Cut it out,” Andras cried. “You’re both my friends. Stop fighting.”_

_“Get out,” Tamlin seethed. “And take the skank with you.”_

_Feyre probably would have done good on her fantasy to slam his face into the desk if Andras hadn’t grabbed her and hauled her out the door, slamming it shut behind him. “ Calm down!”_

_She sucked in a deep breath, reminding herself that prisons did not have functioning libraries and Nesta would flip her shit if I got arrested. “Calm. Calm. So calm that the Dalai Lama would be impressed. Are you sure I can’t kill him?”_

_“Yes. I’m not going to say that Tamlin isn’t an asshole, but you don’t want to mess with him. His father’s dangerous.”_

_Feyre blinked up at him, her curiosity peaked. “Really? Is he some big-shot figure or something?”_

_Andras wearily eyed her from the corner of his eye. “Something like that. Just, stay away from him, okay? I don’t want you to get hurt.”_

_“…Okay.”_

* * *

“Laundry, done,” Feyre muttered, climbing down her apartment stairs.

“Paperwork, done,” she sighed, dodging a flying…lamp? What?

Glancing up momentarily from her checklist, she took in the guilty faces of the children of her two downstairs neighbors, shuffling on their feet and trying to look small. “Better get that lamp before your moms find out.”

The twins nodded, darting around her to get to the piece of furniture, which had now gotten tangled in the clothesline of their apartment.

Feyre shook her head before continuing down the staircase, looking over the remainder of her checklist. “Which leaves me with…groceries and flowers.”

 _Best for last_.

She pocketed the tiny book, straightening her shoulders as she stepped into the flower shop. A blast of cold hair hit her immediately, causing her hair to whip back, and Feyre shook waivered strands out of her face.

She paused for a brief second, scanning the shop for a mop of black hair. “Good morning, Azriel.”

Said man peered from under the counter, curious eyes searching before settling on her. “Hello, Feyre.”

“Slow day?”

“Yeah,” Azriel said, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s still morning though, so I have hope for more customers.”

Customers that would probably never come, seeing that today seemed to be the hottest day of the year, with a promise of summer rain, but Feyre didn’t say that aloud. “You have my order?”

Azriel nodded, pulling a bouquet out of nowhere. “Dill, Belladonna, Chrysanthemum, and Hydrangeas.” He hesitated for a brief second, as if pondering something, before asking, “Forgive me for prying, but who are these for, Feyre?”

Feyre gave him a mystic smile in response. “I’ll tell you one day.”

As she dug in her jacket pocket for money, Azriel braced his elbows on the counter, giving her a quizzical look. “Not a very common combination, those four. Chrysanthemum meaning death, and Hydrangeas meaning familial love…are you visiting a deceased family member?”

Feyre’s face broke in a grin as she handed over the change in exchange for the bouquet. “Goodbye, Az.”

* * *

_“What are these, Mama?” a curious, eight-year-old Feyre asked, peering into her mother’s lap._

_Astrid Archeron chuckled, patting her daughter’s head. “These are called Belladonna, love.”_

_Blue-gray eyes blinked at their twins, and Feyre reached out her hand to touch a leaf._

_Astrid tutted lightly, catching her fingers. “They're poisonous, Feyre. Be careful.”_

_Feyre pouted slightly, before turning to her mother. “What do the flowers mean, Mama?”_

_Stroking a flower petal, Astrid took a minute before murmuring, “Silence.”_

_“Silence?”_

_“Belladonna’s remind us of how easy it is to snuff out a voice. That’s great power, love. Be careful with it.”_

_“Are these your favorite flowers?” Feyre questioned, wrapping her hands around Astrid’s arm._

_“Yes.” Astrid leaned forward, plucking a flower of its shrub and lacing it in her daughter's hair. “Dill’s to keep away evil. Always remember your flowers, Feyre. You might not know it yet, but they’ll help you one day.”_

_Feyre, too young and innocent to understand the weight of her mother’s words, simply giggled, tightening her hold on Astrid’s arm, and buried her face in her dress._

* * *

“Dill’s to keep away evil,” Feyre murmured, reciting words from long ago. “You rest now, Mama. I’ll keep you safe.”

She placed the bouquet on the grave, before brushing her hands on her jeans and walking away. Because secrets never stayed safe in the city of Velaris, but Feyre’s would, under lock and key and buried deep into her heart.

Some secrets aren’t meant to be revealed, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking at all your responses blew me away. Thank you soooooo much. It means a lot.
> 
> This chapter was more of a filler, and the next one will most likely also be, but more plot shall come along.
> 
> -Aztec
> 
> P.S. Challenge for this chapter: Ask me something.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Language.

It was dark. Oh _god,_ it was dark.

The moon was hidden. There wasn’t a soul in sight. And here they were, trapped in a graveyard—

“ _Junkyard_ , Cassian.”

“ _Shh_. Be quiet, Mor.”

—with nothing but themselves and their bodies.

“We have guns with us. And our clothes.”

“You’re ruining the mood, Az.”

Ice poured down on them—

“It’s the middle of summer. How the hell would ice pour down on us?”

“Global warming, Rhysie.”

—and the sky was gray.

“It’s the middle of the night. How else would it be gray?”

“Shut the hell up, Amren.”

The wind howled like a wounded animal, crying and sobbing for a release that would never be given, like a maiden begging for salvation as the man kneeled in between her parted legs and—

“ _Stop being so melodramatic, Cassian!_ ” Mor hissed, ripping the book out of his hands. “And stop reading your porn in the middle of errands!”

Cassian hissed right back at the blonde, rubbing the area that she swatted as she had yanked away his book. “ _Cauldron_ , woman! That’s fine literature, right there. Not _porn_.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you’re a goddamn pervert!”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

“Are—”

“ _Shut up, both of you_.”

“No, no, no,” Amren said, waving her hand dismissively towards Rhysand. “Let them continue. I wanna see what happens. Do they give in to the massive sexual tension being generated between them and start making out on the ground?”

Both Mor and Cassian immediately recoiled from one another, twin expressions of absolute disgust on their faces while Azriel subtly choked on air.

Rhysand scrunched his face, as if contemplating tiny children with Mor’s hair and Cassian’s smirk, before pushing that thought right to the back of his mind and locking it in a box labeled ‘Never open, like _ever_ ’. “That’s the stuff of nightmares.”

Azriel nodded, clutching his knees as he heaved.

Amren cackled as Mor and Cassian gave her joint looks of disgust. “That is _the_ most disgusting thing ever. I swear to god, Amren—”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Cassy. You and I both know that I was just joking.”

“Were you though?” Mor challenged, flipping a strand of hair over her shoulder. “Half the court is convinced you’re a vampire, the other, a demon. Even _we’re_ not sure whether or not you’re completely human.”

The smirk that Amren gave her did nothing to help her case. “Am I though?”

Mor ground her teeth in annoyance as Azriel sighed, stepping forward to grasp her shoulder. “I’m not ready for this conversation unless it happens at Rita’s. Or with at least five bottles of whiskey. _Then_ we’ll debate about Amren’s supposed humanity.”

“Good luck with that.”

Cassian flipped her the middle finger.

“Can you _please_ , for Mother’s sake, _behave_ like the twenty-year-olds you are?” Rhysand exasperatedly questioned, planting his hands on his waist and giving his Inner Circle a look that never failed to remind them of his mother.

“Of course, _mother_ ,” Mor teased back, giggling.

Her cousin pinched the bridge of his nose, tipping his head back in a silent prayer. “Cassian reads his porn—"

“ _Fine literature!_ ”

“—at every job, regardless of the safety hazard; Amren spends more time on her phone, messaging Varian—”

“It’s true love, bitches.”

“—than actually getting work done; Azriel, while I am absolutely _ecstatic_ that you’ve hit it off with your Tinder match, I really, _really_ , need you to focus—”

“I’m sorry, Rhys.”

“—and Mor! Who in their right mind spends _three hundred Arian_ on _lingerie_ of all things, I do not know—”

“I have a girlfriend, Rhys. You’ll know what it’s like when you get a good, long-term relationship.” She turned to Azriel. “Right, Az?”

He nodded.

“Uh-uh,” Cassian hummed. “ _Rhysand and Feyre, sittin’ on a tree. K-i-s-s-i-n-g. First comes love, second comes marriage_ —”

“—then comes Cassian with spinal damage,” Rhysand finished murderously, shooting him a scalding look. “Fuck _off_.”

He only got a rough grin in response. “Maybe next time.”

Rhysand sighed, shaking his head. “I’m going to have gray hair because of you lot before I’m even forty.”

“You can’t deny you don’t love us though!” Amren called as he spun on his heel, facing the approaching entourage of men.

“Rhysand Night,” one of them called out in greeting.

“You look radiant as ever, Helion.”

“Thank you, Rhysand,” the leader of the Day Court replied, offering him a grin. “As do you, Mor,” he said to his cousin, who only gave him a small smile in return. It wasn’t a secret that both of them had fallen in bed more times than once in the past, though it was something both she and Rhysand refrained from talking about.

A sharp glance from the leader of the Night Court had his Inner Circle nodding, stepping back to give both High Lords silence and privacy to converse in.

“How have things been?” Rhysand questioned.

Helion sighed, the grin slipping off his face as his shoulders dropped down as if a heavy weight had been placed on them. “Tense. The capital’s in chaos. It seems as if all of Hybern’s men have called back. It’s been weeks since the last time my guards have had to break apart a fight.”

“Oh?”

“He’s been unusually quiet. Even my informants have become tight-lipped. Either they don’t know or they don’t want to tell me. But the gist of it? Something is going to happen. Something _big_.”

Rhysand hissed through his teeth, fixing an irritated glare at the ground. “We’re incapacitated, that means. Hybern is up to something and we have absolutely no clue what it is. It’s like handing a blind man a gun and telling him to shoot a target.”

Helion nodded, his normally easy-going features tense and grim. Lines formed around the edges of his eyes and on his forehead. Under the flickering moonlight, it seemed as if his supposed youth was breaking, showing off just how old he was. Sometimes, Rhysand forgot that he had spent years as his father’s friend before his own.

“I’m sorry, Rhysand. I’m trying, but nobody is talking. They don’t want the money, accommodations, nothing.”

Rhysand clicked his tongue in annoyance, running it along his teeth sharply. “Thank you, Helion. Despite this… _situation_ , you’ve still found a good amount of information. And for that, I am grateful.”

Helion moved forward just as Rhysand turned away, grasping his forearm and pulling him to face him. “Rhysand, I know it’s late, and that I have asked you this many times, but—”

“I’m sorry,” Rhysand said, cutting off the rest of his words. The older man’s grip slackened, and his face fell. “I haven’t any trace of either of them. They’ve either left the Prythian or they’re…” he sucked in a breath, “dead.”

Helion’s expression didn’t shift, but Rhysand was able to catch the way his features froze slightly, was able to see the pain and horror in his eyes as he withdrew his hand and nodded, before spinning around and walking away.

Rhysand stared at the retreating back of the Day Court leader, not moving even after he and his guards turned into tiny specks that disappeared once they crossed the junkyard gates. “I’ll find your son one day, Helion. I promise.”

* * *

Somewhere, in a dingy apartment with bad lighting, whilst eating a can of yogurt, a young man sneezed.

* * *

_Twenty-seven years ago…_

* * *

_She’d kill him if she could, Anarka decided, but she wouldn’t._

_Too scared. Too weak. Too incompetent._

_You’re useless._

_Anarka sighed, sitting down heavily on the bed as she massaged her throat, finally free of the suffocating choker she had been forced to wear._

_A collar. He has you on a leash like a dog._

_Like a little bitch._

_Turning the gold ornament around in her hands, she eyed the intricate detailing, the glittering diamonds and sapphires._

_Just one of these gems could have paid all the fees for art school._

_Why in Mother’s name would you want to go to art school? A lady like you is supposed to be married off._

_She hadn’t painted once since she had gotten married. Hadn’t touched a color, a pencil, a piece of charcoal. She knew that all she needed to do was ask and he’d buy the best supplies available on the market, but she couldn’t._

_The urge to paint had disappeared the day she been shackled and her wings clipped._

_The sky was still the same; so were the stars, but Anarka had lost the desire to bring them down on paper._

_Disposing of the choker on her vanity, she started on the rest of her jewelry. In good time too; the door banged open just as she unfastened her earrings._

_Brown eyes swept the room with murderous intent before settling on her, and Anarka resisted the urge to flinch as heavy footfalls led the man to stand behind her._

_“You left.”_

_His tone sent shivers down her spine._

_Anarka hummed as she vanished the fingers of her right hand underneath her left sleeve. It was a poor attempt to conceal the shaking of her arms. “I was feeling sick.”_

_“Oh?”_

_Anarka swallowed, and his eyes snatched on the way her throat contracted. She was running out of excuses to feed him. He’d realize soon enough why she ran whenever the topic of her husband’s friends came up. “It’s the smoke. It gives me a headache.”_

_His hands came up to grasp her biceps tightly. She’d have bruises there in the morning. “The next ball requires mandatory attendance by the leader and his spouses. I will not have you vanishing off to Mother knows where and embarrassing me. Understood?”_

_His fingers tightened fractionally, almost cutting off Anarka’s circulation. She hastily nodded, and his hands disappeared, almost like they were never there in the first place. Looking in the mirror, she saw him walk to his bedside cabinet and withdraw a box._

_Anarka forced her eyes down to contemplate the wide range of lotions – none of which she used, or particularly liked – on her vanity as his hands slipped around her neck, fastening the chain with a soft_ _click_ _._

_“A gift.”_

_She glanced at the mirror as her hand flew up to thumb the charm, mesmerized by the way it looked. A simple autumn leaf, crafted from copper. “It’s beautiful.”_

_Beron Vanserra’s face broke in a grin. “Only the best for the High Lady of the Autumn Court.”_

* * *

_It was a pity, Anarka later thought, in the middle of the night as Beron slumbered on peacefully, completely oblivious to her thoughts. She might have loved the necklace then just finding it beautiful if it had been given to her by somebody she actually cared about._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arian is basically Welsh for money. Yes, very, very original.
> 
> My writing's all fixed now. The secret? *Whispers* Write humor. Or at least, attempt to. That worked for me.
> 
> The plot will _really_ start from the next chapter, so...yeah. Stay tuned!
> 
> *Awkwardly shows finger guns as I slide back into my cave* 
> 
> -Aztec
> 
> P.S. Challenge for this chapter: Guess who Azriel's Tinder match was (I just wanna know who you think it is. Go as wild as you want).


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Language. Mentions of blood.

_Nine years ago…_

* * *

_College was alright. Nice. But after the first month, Feyre realized that the only thing redeemable about Spring City University was the location and surrounding scenery. And maybe Andras._

_Okay, definitely Andras._

_But other than that, the campus was nothing special. The dorms were subpar, and the teachers somewhat dim-witted – going by their blatant favoritism of certain students – and the food wasn't particularly great._

_(“There are lumps in the porridge, Andras. Porridge isn't supposed to have lumps.”_

_“It isn't that bad, Feyre. At least it's edible.”)_

_The classes were ridiculously easy, and Feyre often found herself going toe-to-toe against Tamlin, who was apparently the school’s golden boy – probably because his father owned the compound._

_(“You’d think the man would at least invest a little more than a couple of thousand Arian in the place that provided his son with education. Finest schooling my ass. This place is nothing but a dump._

_“Watch it. I’m one of the students who go to this dump. You’re one of the students who go to this dump.”_

_“You like this dump, Andras.”_

_“Hell yeah, I do. You may not like the porridge, but I sure do. It's good food.”_

_“Good food, my ass. I’ll show you good food.”)_

_Tamlin Spring was an asshole, Feyre decided. He was rude, obnoxious, a bastard, and had his head stuck so far up his ass, she wondered how his dentist managed to examine his teeth without plucking his face off._

_He was an arrogant manchild, going by how he always turned his nose up every time he saw her._

_But despite all the setbacks – and glares from Tamlin every time a teacher praised her instead of him, which never failed to leave her with a satisfied feeling – she was convinced._

_Either Feyre Archeron graduated with her degree and became a doctor by the age of twenty-six, or the police would find Tamlin Spring’s head on a stake._

* * *

If there was one thing Feyre Archeron knew, it was that Fridays were never to be trusted.

Saturday? Rush day.

For a holiday like Sunday, that was when the hospital was at its busiest.

Monday was just a total shit show, while Tuesday simply brought headaches and tears.

Wednesday was ‘Bang your head against your desk’ day and Thursday was the devil in disguise, coming along all innocent only to spring hell.

But Friday? Those motherfuckers just weren’t to be trusted.

So when she woke up in her bed, not to the sound of her neighbors having loud sex – _again_ – but her alarm clock, she immediately ran through her mental checklist.

 _Rent?_ Paid.

 _Paperwork?_ Filed.

 _Email about her day off?_ Sent.

 _Oh god, did she forget to let her secretary know about her holiday and give her the day off too?_ Done and done.

So what—

“Eight o’clock, Fey-Fey! Time to get _up_!”

“Mother above,” Feyre swore, kicking her blanket off of her legs, and unceremoniously dumping it on the ground. “Lucien, I swear—”

“I made breakfast.”

Feyre blinked, cut halfway through her rant, and stared at Lucien Archeron, who was leaning against her doorway and smirking at her. “You made what?”

“Eggs, ful medames, and yogurt. I also made your coffee just way you like it.”

“As dark and bitter as my soul?”

Lucien grinned. “Yup.”

Despite the sweet – not that she’d ever tell him that – initiative her brother had taken by making her breakfast, Feyre narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him as she slowly got off her bed, slipping her feet into her slippers. “Did you burn anything?”

“Nope.”

“Break a pan?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Chuck something out the window?”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“Steal money from my wallet?”

Lucien clapped Feyre on the shoulders, staring into her eyes. “The only thing I came here to steal was the title of ‘Best freaking brother’.”

“Alright, alright.”

* * *

Feyre stared at Lucien’s back as he bustled around in her kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, sticking his head into her fridge, and then reaching over to her stove to occasionally check on his own breakfast.

Mindlessly tuning out his chatter about work and how he had caught two of his co-workers shagging in a utility closet – “And _everybody_ was convinced he was gay! Can you believe it?” – whilst giving a grunt or hum whenever appropriate, she continued to shovel bread, beans, and eggs into her mouth.

The day was normal – it _seemed_ normal. The birds were chirping. Her neighbors weren’t having sex. She and her brother were enjoying breakfast.

So why the hell was she feeling so damn uneasy?

“Earth to Feyre,” Lucien called, waving his hand in front of her face. “Am I boring you?”

Feyre scowled, swatting his hand away. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not.”

Lucien smirked, taking a massive bite out of his omelet. “You wanna tell me what’s going on in la-la land?”

“Nothing. I just…feel weird.”

He paused. “Like, sick weird, weird weird, or ‘Oh crap, something’s gonna happen’ weird?”

“A mixture of all,” Feyre murmured, leaning forward to steal one of Lucien’s hashbrowns. “But more of the last one.”

Lucien frowned at the hand that had stolen his food and knocked it away with his own. “Stop stealing my food.”

“You were Elain’s favorite sibling, brother dear. Cant help the fact that you’re the only one in the family who can cook as well as her.”

“I’m her _only_ brother.”

“Semantics,” Feyre sang, bitting half of the hashbrown. She sank into her chair, propping her knees against the edge of her table. “I just feel like something big’s gonna happen. And it’s not necessarily going to be good.”

“Nothing good has ever come out from whenever you get that last feeling.” Lucien set down his fork, lacing her fingers together. Feyre knew he only did that whenever he was nervous. “Do you think that it has anything to do with—”

“Wait.” Feyre held up her hand as her phone rang, buzzing relentlessly from where she had left it on the counter last night. “Let me just get that.”

She unseated herself before picking up her phone, sparing a glance at the caller ID. “Miranda, is something—”

“ _Oh my god_. Feyre, Feyre, turn on the news.”

Feyre frowned at her secretary’s frantic, border-line hysterical voice. “What’s going on? Miranda!”

A sob echoed through the line, and Feyre froze, her eyes shooting up to Lucien, who was halfway out of his chair. “Just turn on the news. _Please_.”

With one nod from her, Lucien dashed to turn on the tv before flipping onto the local news channel.

“—reports suggest that the explosion was purposeful, and was most likely arranged by Hybern, who earlier this year had disappeared off of the police’s radar. Evacuation of the area is ongoing, but a rough sketch estimates that about five hundred people have been injured, including several staff members of the hospital, along with patients and various first responders—”

The phone almost slipped out of Feyre’s grasp as she stared at the screen in horror, her mind reeling from what the news anchor had just said. “ _Five hundred injured?_ ”

Miranda sobbed, and Feyre could picture her nodding. “The entire left-wing was demolished, Feyre, I don’t—”

“ _Breathe_ , Miranda. You need to breathe. It’s going to be alright. It’s going to be fine. I _need_ you to trust me, alright? Can you breathe with me?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Good. Just follow my breathing.”

As Feyre sucked in a deep breath and slowly let it out, she heard Miranda do the same, shakily inhaling and exhaling with her.

As she whispered into her phone, trying to calm Miranda down, she watched as Lucien pulled his own phone out of his jacket, presumably to call their eldest sibling. Her hunch was confirmed as he hissed Nesta’s name. “There was an explosion at the hospital. Just half an hour back.”

Feyre turned away from his conversation, hearing Miranda hiccup softly. “Better now?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, good. I want you to talk to your sister, okay? And get some sleep. You’ll feel better after some rest.”

“A-alright.”

Feyre pulled her phone away from her ear, ending the call just as Lucien turned to her. “Nesta’s looking into it. She’ll probably have answers soon.” He hesitated, and for a moment, she saw the fear he was concealing behind his eyes “Feyre, if it _was_ Hybern, then…”

Feyre nodded. “It means that he’s—”

The door to Feyre’s apartment banged open, and both brother and sister spun to stare at—

“ _Cassian?!_ ”

The dark-haired man panted, looking at Feyre with a strange look on his face which eventually melted into a look of relief. “You’re here. You’re here. You’re okay. You’re—”

He trailed off, having caught sight of Lucien. “You’re with a stranger. Who—”

“Luc-uh, Lucy?” Azriel said, appearing from behind Cassian. “Lu, Lu—”

“Lucien,” he offered. “Azriel, if I’m correct.” He turned to Cassian. “I’m Feyre’s brother.”

Cassian blinked, turning to look at Feyre before glancing back at him. “Huh?”

“He’s adopted,” Feyre supplied.

“Oh. _Oh_. Cool, cool, cool. Great. Good. Great. Awesome.”

Azriel made his way inside, sitting down heavily on the chair Lucien had been occupying, and only then did Feyre see the gaping wound on the side of his right leg. “Holy shit, Az, _you’re bleeding_.”

He waved his hand in the air as she darted to where she kept her first-aid kit. “Just a scratch, nothing more.”

“You do _not_ get _scratches_ from _bullets_ , Azriel. What the _hell_ were you doing?”

“Oh, you know,” Cassian called as he made his way to her window and pulled down her blinds. “ _Things_. Definitely nothing illegal. Nope. Not at all.”

“It’s fine. Lucien knows.”

“Oh. Well then, the hospital explosion was no accident, and Hybern was _definitely_ behind it.”

Feyre almost – _almost_ – dropped her tweezers as she yanked the bullet out of Azriel’s leg. “ _Hybern?_ Most dangerous man of Prythian _Hybern_? That dude?”

“Well, I can't exactly remember any other Hybern being in the country, so yeah. Him.”

“Why would he bomb the hospital though?” Lucien questioned, crossing his arms across his chest.

“We think he’s after you, Feyre,” Azriel said.

“Me?”

“Yeah. We don’t know why, but he’s definitely after you. And I know this is sudden, but I need you to come with us.” He turned to look at Lucien. “ _Both_ of you. He knew you worked at the hospital. It’s possible he knows where you live too.”

Feyre sucked in a deep as she leaned back on her haunches.

Oh yes. Friday’s were _definitely_ not to be trusted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Life picked up, and I realized that I hadn’t worked on the chapter at all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Language.

There were eighty-four commonly used swear words in the English language, and Feyre knew every single one of them.

Yet _none_ of them were good enough to describe her situation.

“ _Motherfucking cunt_ ,” she growled under her breath as she paced the length of the room that Cassian had shown her to. “ _Motherfucking bastard son of a whore!_ ”

“Swearing isn’t going to improve our situation.”

“ _I don’t care!_ ”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Lucien began. “Swearing isn’t going to improve our situation, but,” he set down a bottle and two glasses on the table, “having a drink might.”

Feyre froze and pointed a finger at the whiskey. “Where did you get that?”

“Kitchen.” Lucien cracked the bottle open and poured a glass. “It’s the most common one I could find. They wouldn’t notice it missing.”

Feyre wanted to argue that _yes, they will definitely notice you made off with a bottle you idiot_ but as she watched him fill up the second glass, she realized she didn’t really want to. Weariness had settled on her bones like a blanket, and all she wanted was to lie in bed and cry. A lot. Preferably enough to create a river and then drown herself in it because who wouldn’t?

The most dangerous man in Prythian was after her for reasons unknown – though she had a sneaking suspicion why – and had put her out of the _one_ job that she could do without melting her brain circuit and now she couldn’t even be in her own apartment without the possibility of being blown up by a bomb or something.

So, she moved to grasp the glass, brought it to her nose for a sniff, and then downed it all in one gulp.

Lucien blinked at her, his own glass poised at his lips, and whistled. “ _Damn._ ”

“Shut up. And give me the bottle.”

* * *

_Twenty-seven years ago…_

* * *

_Anarka smoothed down her dress for what must have been the twentieth time tonight, and yet she still found herself searching for imaginary wrinkles._

_(“I want everything to be perfect,” Beron growled.)_

_Flinching at the memory, she quickened her pace, barley stopping herself from tripping in her heels, and briskly jogged around the corner of the corridor, spotting her husband, impatiently tapping his foot on the floor. “ Where were you?”_

_Anarka mentally flinched at his harsh tone. “I was getting my hair done. The pins kept on snapping.”_

_She had been the one purposefully snapping the pins, but what her husband didn’t know couldn’t hurt him._

_Beron narrowed his eyes at her, and for one dreadful second, Anarka thought he would catch her white lie, but instead, he simply turned and gave her his arm. “We’re late either way. Let’s go.”_

_Anarka’s sigh of relief was lost as she quickly grasped his arm, and followed him into the ballroom._

* * *

_The night air was minty, and from where Anarka was standing, she was able to see the stars. They were beautiful._

_“They are, aren’t they?”_

_She huffed a laugh. Mother above, she couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed. Beron had never been one for humor. “They’re pretty.”_

_“Night had always been a lavish son of a bitch,” Helion Day hummed, leaning against the balcony railing and rubbing his shoulder against hers. “But he always knew how to throw a party. And a good one, at that.”_

_If her husband saw her here, like this, standing and talking to a person he considered his enemy, he’d kill her on the spot. “He had money to spare, so he spent it. Though not in a particularly great way.”_

_“You’re not one for parties?”_

_Anarka twirled her glass and watched the golden liquid inside it swirl. Champagne always made her feel nauseous. “Hate them. The only reason why I came is because of Beron.”_

_Helion tensed at the sound of her husband’s name, and Anarka wanted to kick herself. Why, why, why—_

_“And you. I like your company.”_

_He blinked at her, and she chose to spend a moment to observe the way his golden eyes dilated in surprise, and then in something else. “You, like spending time with me?”_

_“Yes. You know why?”_

_Helion leaned in slightly, intently staring at her and obviously waiting for her answer, and just to humor him a little – and for some selfish reasons – Anarka leaned in too. He smelled like forbidden secrets and desires. “You’re intelligent. You make jokes too.”_

_“Those qualities are usually the ones that dissuade people from talking to me.” His voice made her toes curl._

_“Well, they’ve certainly missed out on an amazing person.”_

_Anarka never thought that Helion was capable of being embarrassed. But as she watched the red spread across his nose and cheeks like stardust, she wanted to laugh. Trust him to even make blushing look beautiful._

_“Oh look.” She turned away to point at the sky. “The stars are falling.”_

_“Starfall.” Helion’s voice was guttural. “Legend says that the stars are actually spirits migrating.”_

_“Migrating? From where? To where?”_

_“Dunno. It’s only visible from here.”_

_“Huh,” Anarka said, not taking her eyes off the sky. “Night really is a son of a bitch.” It was beautiful. Like diamonds dropping from the sky. Like dreams and wants and desires slipping from the heavens._

_Helion grabbed her hand and tugged her towards him, and Anarka had just enough time to suck in a breath before his lips crashed into hers. He tasted like mangoes and spice._

_“Stay with me. Be mine,” he begged as they broke for breath. He sounded like a broken man._

_ You did this to him. _

_“I can’t. He’ll kill me if I leave him.”_

_(“Take me with you,” she screamed inside her head.)_

_“We can run away. We can leave Prythian. We can start over—”_

_“You can’t leave your family, Helion. You have a future here—”_

_“I don’t have any future without you, Anarka.” His eyes looked like molten gold._

_Her hand reached up to grasp his face. She thumbed his cheek and took in his desperate expression. “One night. That’s all I can give you.”_

_His hands slipped to grasp her waist. “Be mine.”_

_“Just for tonight.”_

* * *

Feyre blinked at the Rhysand look-alike that blinked right back at her, except she was a…well, _she_.

How much whiskey did she drink again?”

“Reya!” Rhysand called, appearing at her doorway. “Go to your room.”

The Rhysand look-alike’s nostrils flared. “I’m almost fifteen, you can’t tell me what to do!”

“I’m also your legal guardian until you’re eighteen, so you better listen to what I say!”

“Fuck you!” And with a flourish, she stomped out the door, deliberately shoulder-checking Rhysand.

“Sorry about that. She’s a little—”

“Is that your daughter?”

Rhysand sputtered comically, staring at her as if she was crazy. At this point, she was quite convinced she was. “What?! _No!_ That’s-that’s my _sister_.”

“Oh.” Feyre huffed out a breath, leaning back into her chair. “Alright.”

He paused, taking in the scene of her cradling a whiskey bottle and Lucien slumped across the table, snoring, and the second bottle lying on the ground, and the third, and the fourth…

“How much did you guys drink?”

“Lucien drank a bottle. I drank a little more. But no worries!” Feyre set the bottle down before heaving herself off the chair. “I have a high tolerance, so I am completely sober. So is my brother, even though he doesn’t look like it.”

With a swift kick under the table, Lucian jolted awake, blearily blinking. “Waz goin’ on?”

“See. Completely sober.”

Rhysand didn’t look completely convinced as he glanced between both of them, but he relented nonetheless, turning around before throwing a “Follow me,” over his shoulder, and walking out the room.

As Feyre and Lucien walked down the corridor as the Night Court leader led the way, she noted the various paintings decorating the hallway. “These look very expensive.”

Rhysand glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “They are, though I’m exactly sure how much they cost. I’m not exactly very well versed with many artists.”

Feyre pointed at one, which was a pretty landscape of a river, entirely composed of white and gray paint. “This one sold on the market for twenty-seven hundred thousand Arian. Whoever bought this has excellent tastes.”

“ _That_ would be my father.”

Rhysand led them to the same kitchen that Lucian presumably nicked the whiskey from, which was now occupied by Azriel, who sat on one of the dining table chairs, and Cassian, who was skinning an apple with a knife.

Mor appeared from behind the kitchen island, setting down a glass and a bottle of milk, and looked up as the crossed the door well. “Wotcher.”

Feyre nodded at her, and Lucien stumbled into the room right after, running a hand through his hair, which was standing up as if he had been shocked. Mor’s eyes widened fractionally as she looked at him, and Feyre was reminded that this was the first time she was seeing him. “Uh, this is my brother, Lucien.”

Mor blinked at Lucien, who only smiled tiredly at her and extended his hand. “Hi.”

She stared at his hand for a good few seconds before snapping out of whatever trance she was in and vigorously shaking it. “ _Hello!_ Hi, hi, sorry about that.”

Lucien gave her a nervous chuckle in return, before hastily withdrawing his hand.

Rhysand sank down in the chair next to Azriel. “I imagine you have some questions, Feyre.”

Feyre scoffed. “ _Some_ questions would be an understatement. I have, like, a shit ton. Why is Hybern after me? Why did he bomb the hospital? Why are _you_ helping us?”

“Okay, uh, we don’t know why Hybern is after you, he probably didn’t know it was your day off at the hospital when he placed the bomb there, and because you saved my life.” Rhysand stared right at her, and for a brief moment, Feyre felt as if he was staring right at her bitter, dark soul.

“You’ll find out, right?” Lucien questioned. “Why he’s after my sister, I mean.”

“Definitely,” Mor spoke up. “We won't stop until we find the reason.”

“And once you do? What then?”

“We kill him,” Cassian said matter-of-factly. “When he attacked Feyre, even though it was indirectly, he declared war on the seven Courts of Velaris.”

Feyre blinked at him. “Wait, _war_? How did we get there.”

“It’s complicated,” Azriel supplied. “We’ll explain it to you later. Until then, you can get something to eat. I imagine your hungry.”

Now that Azriel mentioned, Feyre realized that yes, she was hungry. Very much so. Breakfast had been almost three hours ago and barley been able to eat half of it. But…

“I’ll just take an apple.”

She didn’t really think she’d be able to keep anything else down.

“I’ll take the same,” Lucien said.

Mor blinked between both of them. “You both are quite similar, honestly. Just like twins.”

Feyre and Lucien both shrugged synchronously. “Our mother used to say the same thing.”

“Speaking of mother,” Rhysand muttered. “You should probably let your siblings know about Hybern. It’s advised that they go off the radar.”

It was highly unlikely that Lucien’s phonecall hadn’t already prompted Nesta and Elain to disappear, as well as wipe out any mentions of their names. By now, Feyre imagined, that even using the most competent hacker in the world would draw out nothing but a big, fat question mark about the name of Archeron.

But they didn’t need to know that.

“I’ll give them a call.”

“Great.” Mor smiled at both of them, holding out an apple clasped in each of her hands. “Here.”

Both of them softly murmured their thanks as they took the apples. Feyre took a bite out of hers. Sweet. Juicy. Expensive.

Why was everything related to Rhysand Night so damn expensive?

* * *

“He looks like Helion,” Mor blurted as soon as Rhys came back from dropping off Feyre and Lucien at their shared room.

Cassian snapped his fingers. “That’s who he was reminding me off!”

Rhysand scrunched his face as he contemplated Mor’s words. “But at the same time, he doesn’t? His coloring is off.”

“His facial structure reminds me of Helion,” Azriel said. “But other than that, he doesn’t really seem much like him.”

“He has dual colored eyes, and one of them is the same color as Helion’s!” Mor cried. “Isn’t that proof enough?!”

“Not really,” Rhysand muttered. “We could do a DNA test, but I highly doubt he’d let us do one.”

“Figures,” Cassian snorted. “But we searched for years, Mor. If Lucien was Helion’s son, don’t you think we’d have found him by now? It’s impractical that he managed to slip under our radar. Maybe Lucien really _is_ just some bloke who looks a lot like Helion but that’s where it ends. Nothing else.”

Mor hissed in frustration, raking her nails through hair. “What are the chances of that?! _Nil!_ You don’t just _happen_ to look like somebody! There must be genetics! There must be something—”

Rhysand halted her rambling by laying his hand on her shoulder, and Mor trailed off, giving him a hopeless look. “There _has_ to be.”

“I know you want to help him. I really do. Because I want to as well.”

“You don’t, you…” Mor hissed a breath out, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. “I just want to help him find his son.”

Rhysand crushed her in a hug. “We’ll help him, Mor. Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate school a lot. I have so many assignments going on it's crazy. 
> 
> Since Hauntober is coming up, I'll have to take a small break from this story, so this will probably be the last update until I finish the event and resume writing in November, but fear not! I definitely will continue this story.
> 
> Thank you to all my readers for sticking with the story so far. I love you guysss!!
> 
> -Aztec


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Language.

_Nine years ago…_

* * *

_“Mother above,” Andras whined. “Why the hell are there so many questions?!”_

_Feyre gave him a condensing look. “You were the one who signed up for the advanced chemistry course.”_

_“Why didn’t you stop me?!”_

_“I did. You said, and I quote: fuck off.”_

_Andras tipped his head back before flinging forward, Feyre just barely grabbing his laptop and pulling it out of the way before his forehead banged against the table. “Just kill me. Please. I don’t care about exams anymore. I just want to die.”_

_“Sounds fun, but I rather not get charged with murder.” She flicked her pen with a flourish, scribbling down the answer to another problem. “Plus, when exams are over and we both pass, you get to eat my sister’s amazing cooking. Ain't that great?”_

_He lifted his head just enough to send a dirty stink eye to the textbook lying next to his face. “It is, if I manage to survive until then.”_

_Feyre threw him an annoyed look, smacking the butt of her pen against the back of Andras’ neck. “Why are you so convinced that you’re gonna fail?”_

_“Because I work two jobs as a student and a stalker. I’ve already failed at life. I don’t need to fail at exams too.”_

_“Then,” she pushed a massive stack of books towards him, “study. Don’t fail.”_

_“Bold words coming from somebody who passes without having to slave off their ass and comply with the demands of our problematic education system.”_

_“It’s not problematic.”_

_“It isn’t as long as you’re able to benefit from it.”_

_Feyre sighed. “What can I do to convince you to study?”_

_Andras sat back in his char, looking up at the cloudy sky thoughtfully. “Hm…beat Tamlin in your biochemistry exam. Get a higher score than him.”_

_She snorted. “That’s it?”_

_“You say that now,” he flashed a grin at her, “but nobody’s managed to beat Tamlin’s score in the three years he’s attended Spring City University. Sure, they’ve tried, but they’ve never succeeded.”_

_“Sounds like a challenge.”_

_“It is. You defeat Tamlin, and I’ll put in effort for my own exams.”_

_“Accepted, asshole.”_

_“Game on, bitch.”_

* * *

_The bar was very loud, but Tamlin couldn’t really care with the sweet taste of victory on his tongue. _

_“Way to go, dude!” Andras cried, thumping him on the back hard enough for his drink to slosh in his cup, spilling over slightly to stain his sleeve and fingers._

_“Thanks, man.” Tamlin let lose a rare, small smile as he surveyed the party, which was in full swing throughout the tiny establishment. People swayed left and right, woozy and high on alcohol and several questionable substances. “When are your exams starting?”_

_His best friend’s mood immediately dropped, his face scrunching up in a sad expression. “Tomorrow. God. Fucking kill me.”_

_“Shouldn’t you be in your dorm right now? You don’t want to be hungover when you’re giving your paper.”_

_“Nah.” Andras took a heavy gulp from his cup. “I’ll be fine.”_

_“Tamlin!” There was a flurry of movement as a girl appeared right out of the crowd, latching onto said boy’s arm._

_The blond grimaced. “Hello, Ianthe.”_

_Ianthe grinned up at him, either just very oblivious to Tamlin’s discomfort, or blatantly ignoring it. “I heard you passed,” she purred, pushing her chest into his side. “Top score, from what I can tell.”_

_“It’s nothing.” Tamlin hurridly extracted his arm from Ianthe, shaking it slightly._

_“He’s being humble,” Andras cheered. “But not everybody gets a score of one seventy-four.”_

* * *

_“One seventy-nine!” Feyre cried, chugging the alcohol in her glass as all the girls of her dorm cheered her on._

_Suck it, Tamlin Spring._

* * *

_It was a sunny day. Nice, warm, and quiet._

_For a while._

_“How, in the bloody hell—” an entire stack of books was slammed on the table right in front of Feyre, ripping her very rudely from her daydreaming “—did you get a higher score than me in biochemistry?!”_

_She blinked a little, staring at the stack and then at the hands that were holding it, white-knuckled and practically trembling, before following the arms up a hoodie to a neck and then up to the face of—_

_“Tamlin Spring.”_

_The boy was shaking, his face flushed red and his hair all frazzled and he was staring at Feyre as if there was nothing he wanted to do other than burn her to death with his glare. “How did you do it?”_

_“What? Get a higher score in biochemistry?”_

_“You cheated.”_

_“No.”_

_“Bribed the teacher.”_

_“If I had the money to do that, I wouldn’t be sitting here wearing hand-me-downs. I wouldn’t be sitting here at all.”_

_“Slept with him.”_

_“Ew. He’s married.”_

_“Well, you must’ve done something—” there was literally steam coming out of his ears now “—because nobody has beaten my score in three fucking years!”_

_Feyre grinned at him, taking great pleasure in the way his face turned a brilliant shade of scarlet. “Magic.”_

_Tamlin fumed, his eyes narrowing before he picked his stack of books and stomped off like a child, Feyre’s laughter following him even after he disappeared down the corridor._

* * *

“Evening,” Cassian greeted as Feyre and Lucien sat themselves down at the dining table, right next to Azriel, who shot the former a tired smile.

“Hey,” Feyre muttered back. “What’s up?”

Whatever Cassian was going to say was cut off as Rhysand and Mor came into the kitchen, followed by the Rhysand look-alike, her head bent over her phone, on which she was typing furiously. Feyre watched as Mor loaded a plate with a bit of everything on the dining table, which included potatoes, salade, chicken, and a very nice smelling soup that she couldn’t name before pressing it into the younger’s free hand, who then promptly went out of the kitchen again, still not looking up from her phone.

Rhysand cleared his throat glancing at everybody as he pulled a chair back before sinking into it, shifting closer to the dining table. “How’s everything?” he asked, glancing at Feyre.

She shrugged. “Pretty much the same.”

He chuckled slightly before his expression sobered. “Alright, Cassian, Azriel, wanna tell us what you’ve found out?”

Cassian rubbed his hands dramatically as Azriel shot him a look. “We tried to dig as deep as we could, and filtered all the possibilities.”

“Money wasn’t the problem,” Cassian supplied, ticking off his finger, “which was a big surprise because it usually is the mother root. No offense, but it doesn’t seem like any of your known family is exactly from any old money.”

Lucien shook his head. “None taken.”

“We then tried to see whether the Archeron’s were some sort of distant family members of Hybern, and as much as the possibility disgusted me—” Azriel shuddered slightly as he spoke “—it wasn’t a possibility we could just throw out the window. Thankfully, it’s nothing like that.”

“We also looked at any possibility that perhaps these two families were friends at one point in time, but from what we could see, the Archeron’s immigrated here from Israel a couple of years back—” Cassian glanced at Feyre for confirmation, who subtly nodded back “—whilst Hybern’s family has been here since forever, so it doesn’t seem very likely.”

“So, in conclusion,” Azriel sighed, “either one of you or your sisters ran afoul the wrong informant of Hybern, or fooled around with any of his lieutenants, or knew somebody from the Spring Court, I really don’t know why he’s after you.”

Feyre blinked at Azriel. “Wait, did you just say Spring Court?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“What does the Spring Court have to do with anything?”

“Well,” Mor began, “a couple of years ago, when Hybern was still significantly powerful than he was today, he had control over Velaris through one of his lieutenants. Now, this lieutenant trusted the leader of the Spring Court and gave him quite a lot of privileges even though it was common knowledge that he didn’t like her. So, when she was found dead one day, suspicion naturally fell on him, except that he was already in jail, which meant that Hybern wasn’t able to get any revenge on him.”

Feyre stared at Mor. “The leader of the Spring Court. What is his name?”

“Tamlin Spring,” Rhysand quipped.

“Tamlin Spring?” Lucien questioned, his brows furrowing. “Blonde hair, green eyes, biochemistry freak? Permanent scowl on his face?”

Cassian did a double-back. “Wait, you know him?”

“Uh, yeah I do.” Feyre looked at Rhysand. “He’s my ex-boyfriend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EEEEEEEE. And here's the eighth chapter after more than an entire month! Thank you to all my readers for sticking around for so long!
> 
> The flashback scenes were inspired by the fact that Elle Woods got a higher score than Sam Winchester.
> 
> -Aztec

**Author's Note:**

> So, just a little something I wrote on whim. Completely unedited. I might write another chapter, but I’m not sure.
> 
> \--Aztec


End file.
